Indonesia
Decisions and destinies are not for man; they are for the Gods and a God’s alone. Good and evil walk this earth and man must tread a narrow path between them. Throughout a man’s life there is day, night, and the task at hand. Day is for struggling to fill his empty belly, to silence the cries of his starving children, to toil unceasingly until the sun goes down. Night is the time to pray, to offer sacrifice that the Gods may choose mercifully mans’ fate. And as the sun falls in the night sky, the Gods begin their eternal war for possession of the earth and the souls of all mankind. Survival is man’s task, obedience his obligation.
Choice is a rich man’s folly. There is no choice but to endure the day, survive the night. There is the realization that fate is in the hands of the Gods who rule the night inhabiting dreams. That is why most Indonesians fear the night more than they dread the coming of another day’s struggle to survive.
And now, it is night…
*****
Darkness wrapped hot and wet around the Javanese rain forest, filling in the cracks and crevasses until jungle and night were inseparable. Traversing the heavens wispy veils of blackened clouds grew in a conspiratorial nature until they obscured the creamy face of the crescent moon. In the darkness devils clad in ebon loincloths crept silently across the smooth black basalt of the courtyard. But darkness did not concern these assassins, these “setans.” They were creatures of the night. The jungle would never reveal their presence, nor now the moonlight betray their pernicious wickedness. Their evil reached beyond earthly dimensions for they were under the direction of an ancient god.
A litany of sacred spells from magic tomes raised these corporeal forms beyond the reach of human perception. An enveloping cocoon spun from filaments of the netherworld provided concealment. Mystical tattoos shrouding their bodies transported the invading physical beings into a realm undetectable by any mortal sense of awareness. Hidden in the black of night, of stone, of magic; hundreds steadily advanced toward the large dark structure dominating the far side of the open circular plaza.
There was no sense of urgency in this attack, no rush to proceed. Invisibility insured secrecy and the magic of eternity flowing through each man’s veins assured ever-lasting life. Halting, they massed about their leader who took each man singly, staring into his soul to see for himself their measure of dedication to the way. Throats offered to the shining blade he waved, they gave themselves up to him and to their holy mission. Commitment was life. Any measure less meant instant death.
When all had passed this final test, a single howling cry split the darkness as the leader of the setans announced their charge. Taking human form, the devils fell upon the unsuspecting guards; for devils must occupy the same physical realm as their intended victims in order to do physical harm. The purpose of this mission was most assuredly to harm, to kill; but more importantly, to reclaim the universe.
A small detachment of Indonesian Regular Army guarded the shrine. Caught momentarily unaware they froze at the death cry coming from the empty darkness. But these were modern highly trained soldiers, not simple peasants believing in either invisible monsters or invincible magic. As targets materialized the troops brought the muzzles of their Soviet-made automatic weapons to bear. The sharp bark of the AK-47’s reverberated off the stone as a lethal swarm of lead tore into the attacking horde. But the first wave of devils refused to fall. Their magic was strong. A dukin’s spell detached the setans’ souls from their bodies placing the spirits of the warriors in the underworld realm of Lord Batara Kala.
Empty soulless flesh drove forward absorbing the blasts, shielding those behind from harm. Such a noble death guaranteed a place of honor in the next life and a glorious rebirth in this world. Soon the magazines in the assault weapons were spent. The Indonesian Regulars cast down their empty rifles, drew survival knives and bundled themselves closer together. Falling back into a tight group they sought protection in one another as a living army silently picked its path over the mountain of bloody corpses littering the plaza and steadily advanced toward the defenders. Again a scream tore through the night and the setans descended upon the guards.
Despite advanced training in hand to hand combat, the guards’ skills were no match for the setans’ magic. Ancient magic provides no spell to stop a bullet traveling at 3,000 miles per hour from rending human flesh. Many devils had fallen to the barrage of lead. But the Indonesians have waged war for centuries with blades of iron and steel. Against these weapons the setans possessed invincible power. No blade forged by man could cut or tear the flesh of the invaders. And so, the devils fell upon the soldiers hacking them to pieces with their gleaming krises.
When the carnage ceased and the blood lust quelled, the attackers split into two groups. The setan leader took his forces into the shrine, reappearing moments later with the treasures. As the skies cleared and the moon reappeared overhead the other group, led by the “leyaks”, witches, prepared a sacrifice to the old gods for granting success to their mission.
A kidnapped female child, a virgin just blossoming into womanhood, lay naked on the cold black stone. Frozen in the witches’ trance thoughts of escape could not manifest in her mind. Magic bound her tighter than iron. The eldest leyak approached her. Circling in a clockwise fashion he sang a spell destined for the ears of the ancient gods of Java. He called on his master, Batara Kala, to receive the soul of this maiden, to pass a piece of her spirit to each man present strengthening those souls in their missions to come. Holding his kris high above his head, letting the crescent moon dance along the dagger’s wavy blade, he prayed aloud for Batara Kala to destroy all other gods, especially Buddha here at his Temple of Enlightenment.
“Batara Kala,” he screamed, “we give you blood.”
The witch stabbed downward piercing the child’s chest and severing her aorta. A geyser of blood spewed out, issuing forth with every beat of her young heart. The eager hands of the leyaks swept it up, smearing it liberally on their bodies to absorb its life force thereby blinding Buddha’s awareness of their unholy actions.
Now obscured from Buddha’s sight they gathered bowls of blood and raced about the courtyard painting magical hand signs on dozens of stone Buddha statues encircling the plaza. With Buddha blinded, Batara Kala might yet destroy his holy power at this shrine. As Buddha’s influence fell inch by inch all over the lands of Indonesia, the path of Batara Kala’s return would be assured. Fearing Buddha could not stand against the old gods, how could the simple peasants here not accept the return of the old ways? Kala would return and make them kings.
Abandoning the child’s lifeless form, the leyaks slipped back into the jungle’s silence. Gathering up their stolen treasures and their dead, the setans vanished into the night air. Borobudur, the Temple of Enlightenment, sat as it had for the previous 500 years – empty, devoid of life, deathly quiet in the darkness of the Indonesian night.
*****
A Balinese Legend
“There are three levels of the universe – The Underworld, the Middle World, and the Upper World. The Underworld is the realm of demons ruled by Batara Kala and his goddess, Seysuyara. The Middle World is what man calls Earth – the realm of the living. The Upper World, highest of all, comprises several levels. Closest to Earth lays the level of the Clouds. Here the God of Love dwells. Next is the Atmosphere, the dark blue sky where the Sun and Moon reside. The bird, Tjak, and the Serpent, Takasaka, dwell with the Stars in the upper perfumed sky. Higher still is found the Gringsing Wayang, the flaming heaven of the ancestors, whose spirits guide and protect us. Above all live the great gods watching over the heavenly nymphs.
Greatest of all is Lord Siva, and Batara Kala, the demon, is his son. Batara Kala, the offspring of Siva’s sperm, fell to Earth as Siva made love to his wife, Uma, when she was in an angry mood. Lord Siva wanted to destroy the sperm and ordered the lesser gods to kill it with their magic arrows. Unfortunately for all they missed and Batara Kala grew into a mighty, fearful giant with an insatiable hunger for human flesh. Siva commanded Batara Kala to teach the human creatures of the Middle World a lesson for they behaved like savages. But evil Batara Kala decided to devour the human race. Siva, seeing this, recalled Batara Kala and cast him down into the Underworld. Then Siva sent the lesser gods to teach men how to behave – to grow food and to follow his religion. Siva saved the humans from Batara Kala, but legend says someday Batara Kala may return.
Let us pray and offer sacrifice he does not…”
*****
And God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness; and let him have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over fowl of the air, and over cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.” So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them.
Genesis 26, 27
*****
“You are mine, Barong Sai,” the beast shouted. “I claim my birthright, both Heaven and Earth. Once again the flesh of mankind will feed my demon legions. Siva shall not stop me. You shall not stop me. I stretch out my hands and blot out the sun. It is only by my grace the children of earth shall see. I am supreme…”
As the demonic laughter trailed off, a giant fist swept down obscuring the universe. Darkness… Only darkness remained. In the emptiness Grant felt the hand of the beast slip inside his chest, closing about his heart.
“I have you,” the monster laughed out. “I have the book. The virgin is mine. I claim victory. Without Siva’s light you shall all submit to me or die.”
“No! Oh, God, no,” Grant screamed lurching up from bed. “Get away from me.”
“Peter,” she said shaking him. “Pete? Wake up, honey. It’s okay. You were having a nightmare. Peter?”
The soft concern she voiced reached down into his dreams. Consciousness touched him, then identity. Thought slowly formed in a fog, a swirling mist… A dream? It had been too real; the nightmare or hallucination? The ghostly vapors… The voice… The beast standing in the swirling mists between heaven and earth… Images… Grotesque scenes of screaming human victims torn limb from limb… Blood… Blood in the twilight’s last gleaming… The life blood of humanity oozing from the corners of the beast’s mouth… The taunting… It called to me. Challenged me… Mocked me… Me? Not me… No, not me…
“Peter, are you alright babe? You are scaring me. You don’t really want me to go, do you?” she whispered rocking him with a gentle shove.
If not me; then who was he calling? And who is this? Who is she, Grant wondered? Where the Hell am I? I danced with her at the fraternity party. But… Oh, shit… My head…
“No, I don’t want you to go. I’m okay now,” he heard himself lie. Terror and confusion still gripped him. Bruises from the beast’s grip pained his heart. “Just go on back to sleep. Honest, I’m fine.”
She is beautiful ran through his mind as his eyes took her in. Lovely… The thought calmed him. Her sighs as he gently caressed her naked shoulder released his tension. A nightmare? Peter Grant does not have nightmares, he told himself. Wrong image… And image is everything.
She pulled at him, coaxing lust to displace fear. Her hands played his flesh and the strategy began to take effect. Horror slipped back into his sub-consciousness lubricated on its journey by a liberal dose of post-adolescent hormones. Her desires held him captive by his ego. No place for beasts or virgins in the web she spun. His only conscious goal became conquest, the only demand – appreciation of his performance on her playing field.
You are so lovely. You make me feel incredible. Who are you? Not that it matters. Don't say a name. Don't say the wrong name. What is your name, pretty thing? You are beautiful. Beauty should have a name. You should have a name. They should make you all wear name tags to avoid just such embarrassing situations. "HI... YOU ARE SLEEPING WITH..."
The nightmare faded into oblivion with the climactic explosion of their lovemaking. She rolled over breathing heavily and slipped off into dreamland. Grant stared at the ceiling trying to recall the night's events... Her name...
I shouldn't get so drunk, he told himself. Of course, any job worth doing... No, I shouldn't get so... Sai... something Sai? No. Shit. I don't know. ‘What do you say to a naked lady, what do you say to a naked lady, what do you say to a naked lady early in the morning?’ It won't matter in the morning anyway. Let her get up and leave for class first. See, simple solutions for simple problems. The most important thing, never let them see you sweat.
Closing his eyes he became vaguely aware of another presence in the room; his room, but not her lovely warm presence beside him. This had a cold malevolence Grant refused to acknowledge. Pushing it aside he drifted off... "…to sleep, perchance to dream." "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet." Her name is Rose. I love you, Rose... at least tonight I love you.
*****
The old man, dressed in simple homespun peasant garb, hobbled across the bamboo floor. Dead eyes rolling inside useless sockets kept beat to his wobbly gate. He needed no eyes. A lifetime of familiarity fixed each object's position in the room. An aura emanating from the power of his spirit searched out this world's presence. His vision scanned other universes.
Slumping down on the worn rattan mat in front of an opaque screen on the wall and pulling his gnarled legs toward his body, he began his trance ritual. Breathing slowly, expanding his consciousness outward with every inhalation, he recited his mantra, his magical incantation, calling on Bali's ancient gods.
As a heady lightness swept away all human bonds the blackness cleared. The ancient spirit rose from the earth and passed beyond the shadow screen barrier. As the universe of the body vanished, the dimension of the gods opened.
The wizard found himself kneeling at the huge clawed cat-like feet of Batara Kala, Lord of the Eight Hot Hells, the Eight Cold Hells, and all the neighboring Hells. Kala stood 40 feet tall, rising on legs as thick and heavy as banyan trees. Nutmeg brown fur covered his torso. Four arms protruded from the massive body, each undulating like a slithering python. Each arm ended in a gigantic sinewy hand, each finger tipped with a wavy knife-like blade for a nail.
A monkey-shaped head sat squarely on the shoulders, but this monkey had three eyes and the snout of a pig. Its teeth were fangs a foot long and yellowed ivory incisors curled upward like the tusks of an old boar. Around his neck the monster wore a necklace of human arm and leg bones. A crown of human skulls adorned his head. From his waist hung a wrap spun from the finest gold, but it did little to mask an immense throbbing erection. Saliva dripped from the huge jowls as Batara Kala waited for his priest to pay homage.
"Lord," the old man prayed, "I am here in answer to your summons. What do you require of me?"
"THE BOOK! Did you get the book?" the giant demanded.
"Yes, Master, we stole the spells as you instructed," the wizard answered.
"And the virgin? She is the key. You must find her."
"My apprentices search at this very moment. You must be patient. The Book is most specific about the..."
"PATIENT? Ten thousand years for this time to come... My patience ends. I wait no longer. Fail me and I shall flay the flesh from your bones and feed it to my dragons. Your damnable soul will be homeless, doomed to wander the sector of the hungry ghosts forever,” the giant boomed.
"I shall not fail you, Lord. The Book tells all we need to know."
"Ah, yes, the spells of that old witch, Rangda. She thought herself a god. Humans exist as fools," Kala roared with braying laughter. "Your destiny is to wallow on your filthy world, content in misery, until death and the fires of cremation free your pitiful souls to the lowest levels of our domain. And this satisfies you. Only gods may walk in Heaven or rule on earth. Look about you, old one. Know your place."
"I feel your greatness, Lord Kala, and know my inadequacy. That is how it should be. The strength flowing through my veins is yours. I stand with you on the far side because you called me through my shadow screen. The greatness that is Kala taught me the way. Only by your leave may I walk in these dimensions as a servant, prostrate before you. I beg your indulgence. Give me time. The plan goes well. You have but to look..."
"I cannot look, Fool. Siva blocks my sight. His power here is great. I see little of the earth. That is why I sought you out at your window; also why the spell of Rangda must succeed. I need to be born into the world of man to be freed from Siva's curse. I shall then rule man and earth. Fail me not, fool."
"Trust me, Master. Put yourself in my hands..."
Again the giant roared with laughter. "At least you amuse me. Go on; touch my hand, fool, and burn with the flame of a god. Or fail me. That too surely brings your death. One is a demise more instantaneously glorious than you can imagine. For a brief second your spirit would light the universe. The other fate brings a slower, more delightfully painful death. Choose or submit accordingly."
"I shall not fail, Master. The plan proceeds perfectly. We kill their priests and mullahs, desecrate their temples and shrines. Fear runs rampant. The people see the return of the old ways. They do not trust the new religions to protect them and they cast them aside. The path of acceptance for your return runs deep. None openly oppose us."
"Then all remaining is the virgin?"
"Not any virgin," the old man answered. "A woman of strength and character must be chosen to carry the god-child lest your seed consume her. The choice is critical. Though she need not be a willing participant; the hot flame of desire is a better environment for the fetus than existence in a womb gone cold from fear."
"A non-believer?"
"The Book suggests it might be best. We search for a woman-child strong in spirit and conviction. Our magic will turn her thoughts to lust and desire, but it will take time, Lord. "
"How will you know when she is ripe?"
"Her sensuality and passion will surpass that of any human female. Her mere presence shall fill the hearts of mortal men to bursting. And her desires will be your own. She must possess such sexuality to be fit to serve as your queen. "
"Find her. I have waited too long for the taste of warm human flesh. Go, old man, find me the virgin. Prepare her."
"Yes, Lord. Your wish is my immediate command. By your leave I shall depart. I have a visitor on my side of the shadow screen. It is my apprentice. I should speak to him and review your instructions."
The old gray figure turned, hobbling back to the opaque rectangle in the dark black wall. Swirls of mist soon obscured the hellish beast in the heavenly dimensions behind him. Kala vanished into the depths of Purgatory and the old dalang's human form stirred.
"I did not wish to disturb you while you talked with our Lord Batara Kala, Master," the younger man said. "Did the news about the Book please him?"
"A god is never pleased," the old man laughed. "He is only placated. Anything more and he does not appear a god."
"But the kris, surely he expressed delight at obtaining Gaja Mada's kris?"
"I did not mention it," the dalang said nonchalantly.
"Why did you not tell our Master?" the disciple quizzed.
"The kris is the most powerful weapon belonging to man. It possesses power undreamed of, perhaps even over a god; a useful tool that might prove necessary. It is well to remember demons are not known for keeping promises made to humans. We honor our bargain, but a little leverage strengthens our position. Enough of that; follow my instructions to the letter. We must be quick, but we must be sure. I have discovered recently that demons have no patience."
*****
"Gayle O'Conner, please."
"One second," the dorm operator responded, "I'll connect you.”
After a couple of rings there was a click followed by a cheerful, "Hello."
"Gayle?"
"Goodbye, Peter."
"No, Gayle, don't hang up. If you do, I'll just call again," Grant threatened. "I'll keep calling 'til you talk to me."
"Call once more and I'll block out your number. Technology is a wonderful thing."
"I'm calling from a pay phone. There are lots of phones here, dozens of phones. Try again."
“I won’t answer.”
"It might by the Prize Patrol looking for another Publisher's Clearing House instant millionaire. Are you going chance that?"
"What do you want, Peter?"
Grant had to think about that. Did he want Gayle O'Conner back in his life? That’s a big 10-4. Was it because he loved her or because the physical attraction between them had defied gravity? Maybe it was just because she'd left him and he was determined not to lose. Failure had never been an option for a Grant. But there was this emptiness that ate away at him, a void he couldn't define or fill. Was that Love?
"Peter, I have work to do. What did you call about?" Gayle asked resigning herself to the conversation. In truth, she wanted to talk to Peter again. So many things had been left unsaid when she stormed out of their relationship. The wounds still felt fresh and raw. Gayle knew she needed to speak her mind, tell Peter exactly how and why he had screwed up. Not for his sake, but to reach closure for herself. "Peter? Say something or I'll hang up."
"I miss you, the good times we had. We were the best together. Can't we..."
"No, Peter, we can't. I won't. I'd be lying if I said I don't still have feelings for you. But I'm not in love with you anymore. You blew it. Don't pretend you don't know why. It's over between us. I'd say let's be friends, but we both know you can’t handle that situation. I'm sorry. Don't call me again. Please, Peter, don't call."
Grant stood in his tiny island of illumination isolated in a sea of darkness, at the lonely end of the student parking lot listening to the monotonous beep of the disconnected call. The battered plastic receiver slipped from his hand to dangle by its silvery metal cord as he slowly turned to walk back across the campus. A disconnected call... A disconnected discordant universe... Damn, that fucking machine kept my quarter. I got fucked for a quarter. At least the price was right. Peter Grant, Come On Down...What's your bid on having this lovely young BITCH hang up on you? Well, BOB, I bid 25¢. BUZZZZZZZZZ...Sorry, you've all over-bid. Tell them about it, Don. That's right; you just wasted two bits, Petey boy. So hit the road, shit head.
That's me. “On the road again, just can't wait to get on the road again. The life I love is making music with my friends...” Shit, I wonder if it's too late to get a cold beer back at the frat house. Maybe Rose is there.
*****
It was one of those subtly suspicious mornings in Los Angeles when a man couldn’t see the air he was breathing. A boldly bright yellow sun blazed down from an azure sky punctuated with tiny white angelic clouds gliding in off the Pacific. It was the kind of day the Chamber of Commerce and the Tourism Bureau touted as typically Californian. That was probably true in the Pliocene before 10 million people arrived in the Los Angeles Basin seeking such mornings for their commute to work in 10 million automobiles belching out air you could see to breathe.
Miller was an anthropology professor at UCLA. As a social scientist he was afforded a measure of leeway not available to the members of the physical science departments. Physical sciences held fast to inexorable laws. Anthropology dealt with people, and even though a science, any dealings involving humans had to allow a “fudge factor.” While universal principles of human nature could be defined, the individual human psyche was too wonderfully diverse to be locked into strict “laws.” The human capacity for choice always trumped the stringent nature of a law.
Miller approved of a universe where choice, and reason, gave a man options in the face of universal laws. His collogues in the physical science departments were too rigidly adherent to fact, hypothesis, theory and law. That was fine to a point; the point at which we looked beyond the fact we live in a physical universe. Beyond that lie art, music, literature, religion, and culture. These were the aspects that drove the human animal to great aspirations, not gravity or inertia.
It was this aspect of Miller’s personality that most influenced his teaching style; and probably why his students referred to him as the Renaissance Man. Miller taught that the greatest expressions of humanity and the most profound human achievements are cultural in nature and must be viewed as such. It is only within the context of each culture that we may understand and evaluate such achievements. The difficulty in understanding lay in stepping beyond our own inherent cultural identities and prejudices.
Here reason, and not stoic law, had to hold dominion; for each unique culture held a different set of universal laws to be true. It was this cultural perception of truth that dictated all of man’s interaction with the physical universe around him. Therefore, if Miller chose to trust breathing air he could not see, so be it. No need to prove the air was still there. He would just trust reason.
Normally Miller had office hours at this time of the morning where he graded papers, saw students, or prepared lectures. His lectures were famous on campus, or infamous, depending on which student you consulted. In his Renaissance Man persona, Miller guided his young charges through the history of the origin, culture, and development of the human species. Believing in the importance of learning, he had banned cell phones and all types of recording devices from his classrooms and lecture halls thus rendering his students to the level of 16th century serfdom, completely cut off from the modern, physical, techn